A little farther on the woodland road made another turn, and here the way was uphill. The numerous rains of the summer previous had washed the rocks bare of dirt, and often the cutter bumped and scraped so badly that Sam was compelled to bring his steed down to a walk.
"Well, one satisfaction, we'll be back to the main road before long," observed Spud, as they finally reached the top of the hill and could get a view of the surroundings. "There is the other road just below us."
"Hello! What's that ahead?" cried Sam, pointing with his left hand. "Looks to me like somebody lying in the snow."
"It is somebody!" exclaimed his chum. "Say! do you suppose that other horse was running away, and this fellow fell out?"
"Not much, with that other fellow using the whip as he was!" returned Sam. "This fellow ahead probably had nothing to do with that other cutter. Excepting he may have been knocked down by the horse," he added suddenly.
"That's what the trouble is! That rascal knocked this fellow down and then hurried on, Sam! Poor fellow! I wonder if he is much hurt?"
By this time the cutter had reached a point opposite to where the person in the snow rested. All the boys could see was some person, wrapped in an overcoat, lying face downward. A cap that looked strangely familiar to Sam lay close at hand. Stopping the horse, Sam leaped from the cutter, and Spud did the same.
"Say, Sam!" burst out the latter, "it looks like——"
"Songbird!" burst out the Rover boy. "It's Songbird, Spud, and he's badly hurt."
It was indeed poor Songbird Powell who rested there in the snow by the roadside. He had on his overcoat and his fur-lined gloves, but his head was bare, and from a cut on his left temple the blood was flowing. The boys turned their college chum over, and at this Songbird uttered a low moan.